Somniari
by WhitethornWolf
Summary: A young Dalish elf leaves their clan in search of 'sulevin ghilana hanin'; a path to a glorious purpose. What happens is more like a dose of reality.
1. Prologue

_The Free Marches_

 _Parvulis/Kingsway, 9:36 Dragon_

Heels dug into the ground, churning the soil and clumps of grass into a mess. Feet drummed on a log cut and sanded smooth, trying to drown out the raised voices coming from the Keeper's tent.

Nyssa grimaced and then winced as the expression pulled at the fresh tattoos on her face. She resisted the urge to touch them, knowing the scabs would fall off in another week. That, and her fingers were dirty.

Creators, how long could they possibly take? It was already past midday.

"Keeper-"

Her brother's voice came from inside, clear as day.

"If I could ask for lenience. With our father passing so soon before the arlathvhen…"

"The arlathvhen!" Keeper Elindra said. "Do not speak to me of the arlathvhen. Do you know what she said to the hahren'al? What she called them?"

"I had heard rumours." Amias sounded less convinced now, and Nyssa grimaced again, trying to ignore the twinge of pain in her cheeks. "I did not suppose…"

She let her head hang over her knees until her hair trailed in the dust, and stopped trying to eavesdrop. Still, it was another minute before the tent flap opened and Amias came out.

They'd often been told they looked alike. Both brown-skinned and black-haired, though Amias's eyes were almost pitch black to her dark green. They looked like their father, though Amias had always reminded her of Mamae.

"That one is too gentle to be a hunter," Papae always said. "He should have been the one with the magic."

Nyssa had always resented that remark. If Amias had the temperament for a Keeper, what did that make her?

"Don't," Amias said, as Nyssa opened her mouth to speak. "Just...don't."

He walked away, hands thrown in the air, and she heard him curse as he stalked towards the craftsman's lean-to.

"Nyssa," called the Keeper from inside the tent.

Time to face the music.

She hadn't spent a lot of time in the Keeper's tent over the years. Most of their lessons were conducted outside, particularly the practical aspects. Magic could be unpredictable, and young apprentices even more so.

Inside it was warm, thanks to the brazier that occupied the centre of the tent. Keeper Elindra sat on a woven mat with her cloak drawn about her. She was not an ancient woman, but the years showed in the wrinkles on her forehead and the silver-grey of her hair. She looked steadily at Nyssa as she entered, raising an eyebrow at her tangled hair and dusty tunic.

"Sit, da'len," she said, and motioned to the mat across from her. "I know you heard us speak."

Nyssa tried not to avoid eye contact. "I still believe I was right."

"That is debatable," the Keeper said. "But even if your point was correct, there are other ways to make it. Interrupting the hahren'al in their council? Calling them...what was it? Stagnant, spineless old relics?"

Nyssa had the grace to flush.

"Have all these years of lessons been for naught?"

"It's because of those lessons that I brought it up with the hahren," Nyssa protested. "It's a Keeper's job to preserve our culture. Why do we not seek it outside of our clans?"

"That is the arlathvhen's purpose, da'len."

"A meeting once every ten years," Nyssa replied, scowling. "Ten years! And all we exchange is gossip and an ever increasing tally of our dead."

The Keeper blinked at her slowly, her dark amber eyes narrowed.

"Then what would you do in my stead?" she asked. "Would you leave our people without guidance while we chase scraps in crumbling ruins?"

Nyssa fell silent and dropped her gaze, picking at a frayed edge of the mat. She could feel the Keeper's eyes upon her, trying to gauge her response.

It was a dangerous line she danced around, questioning a Keeper with even more years behind her than her own parents, and who had trained her since she was a child of seven. There was a point at which arguments and questions became insolence and a challenge, and the consequences for her behaviour would be more severe than a rap on the knuckles.

"That's not what I meant," Nyssa said eventually, and raised her eyes. She spoke carefully; respectfully. "You taught me my learning was sulevin ghilana mirthadra, a path to honoured purpose. How can you say we are doing all we can to preserve our culture? Is it not our purpose to do better, to do more?"

"Our purpose is to protect our clan," Keeper Elindra said sharply. "You are not furthering the people by dreaming of what is beyond that. This is how the world is."

"But-"

"I will not argue this with you again! Go. Think on what I said."

Angry tears pricked at the corner of Nyssa's eyes, but she knew better than to cry. She left the tent without another word.

There were people gathering at the central fire for the midday meal, but Nyssa stalked right by them. She wasn't hungry, and she certainly wasn't in the mood to be stared at. Everyone knew everyone else's business in this clan, and that meant everyone knew she was in trouble with the Keeper.

I was right. Nyssa repeated that thought to herself as she headed for her family's aravel. If she told herself that enough, it wouldn't hurt to think of the Keeper's disappointment.

The clan hadn't moved for almost a year, so the aravels remained a permanent fixture across the camp, used for everything from storage to extra sleeping space. Nyssa's family used theirs for drying herbs, so the interior always smelled like elfroot and feverfew.

Nyssa climbed into the very back and slumped against the wooden wall, blinking until her tears went away. The sheer frustration of the argument made her stomach roil, leaving a sour taste in her mouth.

Was this how it was to be? Forever arguing with her own people about how best to preserve their culture? Observing rituals mindlessly? Teaching their children scraps? Being treated with respect and admiration she did not deserve, while never venturing outside her clan?

Never knowing what more she could be?

For one impulsive moment she considered getting out of the aravel and walking into the forest, never to look back. It was an exhilarating, terrifying thought, to cast off everything she found comfortable and dive into the unknown. It wasn't as if no Dalish had ever left their clan. It wasn't common, and most returned.

She would return. She could return.

Couldn't she?


	2. Consequences

_Halamshiral_

 _Umbralis/Firstfall, 9:36 Dragon_

The market square in Halamshiral was said to pale in comparison to Val Royeaux's Summer Bazaar, but it was large enough to accommodate dozens on a busy day.

There were far more people than just a few dozen, and they packed into the square with their spouses and children, dressed in their ratty cloaks and carrying their concealed blades. Nyssa had never seen so many bare-faced elves in one place, and the sight stirred her.

"The humans restrict access to our own market in favour of foreign merchants!"

An elven man stood on an upturned crate under the branches of the _vhenadahl_ , shouting with his arms raised. Whenever he paused for breath there was an answering shout of agreement, accompanied by a resentful buzz like an angry hive of bees.

"Good Orlesians left to rely on a pittance to feed our families! And for what? So Empress Celene can court Antiva over trade negotiations?"

Nyssa watched from within the crowd, her face hooded, and listened.

This city was more and less of what she'd imagined, even after learning of its significance at her Keeper's knee. There wasn't a Dalish child alive who didn't know of the Exalted Marches- how the humans forced thousands of elves to submit again to human rule. Even hundreds of years on elves still made up most of the population, and the city had been rebuilt around and over the ancient, crumbling walls and cobblestone streets. There were traces of the elvhen everywhere, ignored by downtrodden people who did not appreciate it and humans who scorned its significance.

She'd come to the city after leaving her clan, awed by its history and curious about the elves who lived in the shadows of such a legacy. So far it had disappointed. Instead of the rich history and kinship she'd hoped, all she found was poverty and indifference. Even the times she'd spoken in this same square had garnered little attention, besides the merchants who told her to stop putting off their customers.

The indifference, at least, ceased when the Empress 'made room' for a group of Antivan merchants in the market square. However small the human population in Halamshiral, they apparently required goods too fine for the elves to afford. With market space scarce, many farmers and tradesmen could not afford to sell their wares. The response had been swift and deafening, and impressed her with its ferocity. It seemed the old Dalish tales about the willing submission of city elves were wrong.

"What does Her Imperial Majesty care about us elves?" the speaker shouted, and there was an answering cry from the crowd. "She allows foreigners to set up their trades for humans in our market square, and she makes us pay for the privilege!"

"Injustice!" shouted another voice from the crowd; Nyssa couldn't see who had spoken. "We should reclaim the market!"

"With what?" said another voice. This time it was an older woman a mere two feet away, wearing braids of red streaked with silver. "Do you believe we all carry swords in our tunics?"

"Some of us do!"

"She's right!"

The murmurs grew louder, punctuated by arguing. Nyssa listened to the back and forth arguing with an impatient scowl.

"What is to be gained by constant arguments?" she said loudly, and a half-dozen heads turned to face her. " _Sa'renan_. Unite with one voice, and don't waste your time with petty complaints!"

"And who are you to be saying so?" the redheaded woman demanded. "I do not know you."

Nyssa pulled back her hood impatiently.

"None of you know me," she replied, and watched their eyes flick to her vallaslin. "But I am here regardless."

"It's the girl who's been preaching about shems in the square all last month," said a man on her right.

"Fine. _Some_ of you know me. Are you going to waste time on semantics, or do you want to listen to what I have to say?"

After weeks of living in disguise among the city elves she'd heard it all on the Dalish. They were either violent beasts or figures of legend depending on who you asked, and she couldn't be sure of the reaction when she uncovered her face. But the elves around her did not react violently, as she'd feared.

"Are you here to help us, _lethallin?_ " the older woman asked. The elven word sounded awkward on her tongue, but Nyssa resisted the urge to correct her.

"I will do what I can," she replied. "Sa'renan means one voice. One message delivered to the humans, strengthened by many voices uniting in opposition."

She looked at the faces around her, at their expressions of hope and wariness and curiosity. The speaker beckoned her forward, helping her onto the upturned crate to address the elves whose eyes now fixed upon her.

She was used to the attention of many within her clan; being a Keeper's First made it impossible to stay out of sight and mind. It was still nerve-wracking to speak to a crowd of strangers, especially city elves, but she held her hands up and tried to project her voice.

"Seven hundred and sixteen years," she began, and the crowd fell silent. "Seven hundred and sixteen years ago, this city fell to humans. Your ancestors agreed to human rule, and thus the privilege of human protection. The taxes you pay on your goods, your houses, your city should go to this purpose, but you are not held equal under the law."

"What do you know?" a young man shouted, his cheeks red from the day's sun. "You're Dalish! You don't live in this city!"  
There was an answering protest from elsewhere in the crowd; cries of "He's right!" shouted down by "Let the girl speak!"

"I know this is your city!" Nyssa said. She copied the speaker's gesture, sweeping her arms to indicate the market square. "I've seen enough. You have hard lives. Some of you are beaten and brutalized by the humans meant to protect you. Some of you labour half the day for a handful of silvers, then return to your home heavy with exhaustion. The humans call you 'rabbit', like you are animals!"

An angry murmur rippled through the crowd, but no-one argued.

"You must remind the shemlen this city thrives because of you," Nyssa continued. "You are elvhen, and the ancient resilience of our people flows in the blood of even the smallest and weakest among you." She indicated a young boy with an upturned face, eyes bright as he listened. "Stand steady and strong, like the vhenadahl."

"Enough!"

The crowd parted like a wave, and before her stood a single human man wearing the dark red tunic of the Halamshiral city guard. The early morning sun glinted off the polished shield resting on his arm, and she noted the badge affixed to his pauldron. A guard-captain? They had seen fit to take this seriously, then.

"You are not permitted to gather in the square," the captain said. His cold blue eyes glared from behind the featureless white mask that covered his face from forehead to nose. "Leave, now."

There was an answering flutter of resentment, although one or two people began to back away, tugging their children along with them. More followed when four other guards appeared at the back of the crowd, arranging themselves in a line.

The elven man who spoke first crossed his arms and regarded the captain with a glint in his eye.

"We have a right to be heard," he said loudly, and the crowd rumbled in assent.

The captain strode through the parted crowd, ignoring the elves who fell back before him. He drew his blade, exposing the first few inches of steel.

"You have the right to nothing, rabbit," he said, mouth twisted into a frown. "I said, _leave_. You have been overruled."

Nyssa shared a glance with the elf. His shoulders drooped, and suddenly he looked weary.

"Are you truly going to submit again to this treatment?" she said incredulously.

The man looked at her, defeated. "What else can we do?"

"You can return to the hovel you crawled out of," the captain said, and took a few steps forward. "I will not warn you again!"

"He's afraid of you," Nyssa said, with a laugh. "That's why he threatens you."

The captain lunged forward and kicked the crate from under her feet with a curse. She fell hard onto the cobblestones, gasping as pain shot through her spine.

The silence that followed hung thick in the air, weighted heavy with anger and astonishment.

Nyssa climbed to her feet slowly, her hands shaking from the adrenaline that flooded her body. Almost unconsciously her fingers curled around the dagger she concealed in her belt, flush against the small of her back.

One human in front of her, four others surrounding the crowd. All armed and armoured. Would they use the blades against those caught in the crossfire? A possibility. Could she use magic? Not unless she wanted to be hunted by the templars.

The captain must have seen the dangerous look in her eyes, for he drew his sword in full and pressed the blade against her right cheek.

"I dare you to try, knife-ear," he said softly, menacingly. "Give me a reason to put you down right here."

Her whole life until that moment, she'd believed the phrase 'blood boiling rage' to be an exaggeration.

Then darkness descended upon the market square.

Clouds blanketed the sky, blocking out the sun and deepening the shadows thrown by the vhenadahl.

The captain's hand twitched. The blade came away bloody, her cheek stinging, and the murmurs of the crowd turned into cries of alarm. Nyssa felt it then too: a tug like a ribbon being pulled taut from her chest. The unmistakeable pull of the Veil reshaping around her; invisible, but tangible.

The fog rose around her in swirls, she felt a hand clamp down on her arm, and the square disappeared around her.


	3. Halamshiral

There was a feeling like squeezing around her chest, and flashes of darkness and light in dizzying arrays, and then it stopped so suddenly she felt sick.

Her blurred vision began to refocus. Rough stone wall, light brown dotted with splotches of grey and rust-red.

No human guard. No elves. No market.

Nyssa lashed out with her dagger even as she stumbled, and the grip on her arm turned to iron. An unfamiliar voice said, "Please stop trying to stab me."

The hold moved to her wrist, pressing hard enough to make her drop the dagger. Defeated, she slumped against the wall and breathed heavily, trying to gather her ragged nerves. As her eyes began to adjust to the dim light, she stared at her rescuer, or as much as she could see. She caught a glimpse of a tattooed chin and violet eyes from beneath a threadbare hood.

"Stay back," she warned.

"That's hardly the proper greeting for someone who just saved your hide," the stranger said.

Nyssa scowled. " _You_ cast that spell? Why?"

"As I said, to save your hide. Are you that eager to seek death?"

"No."

The man snorted. "You could have fooled me. You're welcome, by the way."

The irreverent attitude caught her off guard. She watched silently as the stranger lowered his hood, revealing the face of an elven man; dark-haired with a rich, tawny complexion not unlike her own. He wore vallaslin, but there was something about him that gave her pause. He looked like no Dalish she had ever seen.

"Hm." The man grasped her chin and tilted her face to the light. "It's been a long time since I've seen a Dalish anywhere near Halamshiral."

"Andaran atish'an, hahren," Nyssa said, and tried not to wince at his grip. Power radiated from this man, and there was something else she sensed. Something old and beyond her understanding; something that commanded respect.

"Yes, yes. Andaran atish'an to you, too." He let go and stepped back. "Do you not realise how close you came to death, girl?"

"Against one human?" she replied, raising her eyebrows.

"I'm not referring to just your death." His face was stern. "You risked the lives of dozens so you could have your cheap shot."

Nyssa lowered her eyes. She knew he was right; it was hard to remember when anger blinded her to all reason.

"Are you here to help me protect them?" she asked.

"No," the elf said. "I'm here to help you leave the city."

* * *

The man called himself Felassan. 'Slow Arrow' was a curious name, but there were many things about him Nyssa found curious.

He had vallaslin, but he acted like no Dalish she had ever seen. His manners and dress made it clear he wasn't a city elf either, but he seemed to know the streets of Halamshiral.

In the hour following her rescue he led her through a maze of back alleys, and streets that were little more than churned mud through areas with more poverty than she'd ever seen in her life. It was all she could do not to stare at the dirty, haggard faces and stooped shoulders of the people she saw. Not just elves she noted, but humans too.

"I can't leave!" she said for the third time since they'd fled the market square. It was a weak protest, though. The last of her self-preservation instincts told her Felassan would not allow her to go their separate ways, so for now she reluctantly followed.

"We can't always get what we want," Felassan said. He walked ahead with his face covered, and once or twice he would gesture her to wait until a patrol of guards passed ahead. Other than that he had barely spoken to her except in reply.

"That's not an answer. Why are you even here?"

"I was asked to see who was inciting the city elves to rebellion," he replied. "You've been watched from the moment you began making trouble."

Nyssa laughed. "That's absurd. Why would anyone watch me?"

"You clearly don't know of Orlesian politics," he said dryly. "I'm surprised no-one's had you killed."

"I can take care of myself."

He snorted. "Yes, with your tiny blade and years of combat training."

They lapsed into silence. Nyssa kept her simmering resentment hidden as best she could, but it grew more and more difficult with Felassan's silence. She didn't leave her clan behind only to be lectured by a stranger.

"Many tell tales of the Dalish's indifference to our city kin," she said eventually. "Am I supposed to do nothing? Should they not get the chance to fight for their own? To protect their children?"

"And who protects them? Pitting merchants and labourers against hardened soldiers, what do you think would be the result?"

Nyssa said nothing.

"Finally," he said. "The most sensible answer I've heard from you."

They didn't have far to go. The next street ended abruptly with a wall made of the same brown stone as the buildings, but high enough she could only see the top if she squinted.

"What now?" she asked.

Felassan pulled a gnarled stick from inside his coat. As she watched in surprise it began to grow rapidly, twisting around a small, polished crystal into a staff almost as tall as he was.

He had vallaslin, he knew Halamshiral, he was a mage and apparently knew spells she had never seen. Suddenly she wished she'd brought her staff with her, but it didn't seem right to take such a gift from the clan.

"How did you do that?" she asked him.

"With the staff? An easy spell, simple to learn." He tapped the stone wall, and the bricks began to shift, coating the ground with dust. "This one? Another spell not taught by Keepers. A shame."

The hole in the wall widened until it was just large enough for a person to squeeze through.

"Go on," Felassan said. "You won't get out any other way."

Nyssa hovered reluctantly, glancing back into the empty street. The memory of the impoverished elves; the children in the market square and the soldiers…

An uneasiness settled over her. What would happen to them if she left? It seemed wrong to flee the city and leave the burden of punishment to them.

"This seems wrong," she said, chewing her lip. "I intended to help, not cause further harm."

"You can't help them right now." Felassan's expression lost some of its sternness. "Go."

* * *

Halamshiral bordered on the biggest patch of forest in the Dales, and although she was used to this type of environment, she felt more lost and confused the further she ventured. Leaving the city felt like a cowardly act, even if Felassan removed the choice from her. At first she wanted to return only out of anger at being denied, but seeing the abject poverty in the lower parts of the city made her chest hurt. Even if she was wrong to fight the soldiers on their behalf, surely there had been something else she could have done.

Felassan seemed as comfortable and sure-footed in the forest as he did in the city. He simply kept walking, and because she didn't know where else to go, she followed him.

She barely noticed when he stopped in a small clearing, and she only realised when looking up that it was late afternoon, and they'd been walking for hours. She'd let her feet carry her forward while her mind looped around itself.

"We'll camp here tonight," Felassan announced, when she trudged to a halt.

Nyssa busied herself collecting firewood after he disappeared into the forest. Her senses, dulled by distraction, began to return, protesting her tired body and growling stomach.

She had a fire going by the time he returned carrying two rabbits. In silence they skinned the meat and set it on a makeshift spit for roasting. Unconsciously she fed magic into the fire until it was crackling high, for the meat to begin cooking.

"Ah-ha," Felassan said, almost triumphantly. "You _are_ a mage. Did your Keeper let you out to see the world?"

"No." Nyssa kept her head down. "I left."

That decision was looking more and more foolish by the second.

"I'm surprised your Keeper allowed it," he replied, eyebrows rising. "The world is very dangerous for young mages. Even more so in the last few years."

She sighed. "I did not ask for permission."

Reluctantly she told him of the arguments she had with Keeper Elindra, of the arlathhen and confronting the hahren'al, and her ideas for the future. She expected him to make snide remarks at her ideas, but he listened well and didn't interrupt. He did laugh at her description of the hahren'al.

"Stagnant old relics!"

She was so used to being scolded by the Keeper for that, but his genuine amusement made her smile a little.

"It was said out of anger," Nyssa said, "but the sentiment remains the same. We're a stagnant people, and we will remain so unless we act."

Felassan sat back until the planes of his face were in shadow, save for the light reflecting his eyes.

"And who are our people?" he asked.

"All elves. City elves, Dalish elves. No-one to be lesser or more. No-one to be downtrodden by humans."

"Hmm."

"I know many Dalish think of city elves as no more than flat-ears," Nyssa said. "But we are all one people. We should be one again, under a nation of elvhen. As Elvhenan once was."

"And if you had this elven nation, this Elvhenan. Who would be its leader?"

Nyssa frowned; it was a question she had not been asked, given her clan's lack of interest in her ideas.

"I do not know," she said. "I suppose I would want it to be led as our clans are. A council of leaders. Hahren'al."

"But you said the hahren'al were stagnant," Felassan pointed out, and reached forward to turn the rabbits on their spit. "How could you ensure leaders rule fairly and without corruption? How would you ensure they are qualified to lead?"

"Anyone can be taught to lead. I was."

"Ah! You are a mage, apprenticed to a Keeper. How would the gift of magic entitle you to lead any more than a hahren in an alienage, or a hunter in a clan?"

"I don't know," Nyssa retorted. "I don't have the answers yet. But surely a nation in which we choose our own destiny is better than the world we are in now."

"It is," Felassan replied, "unless you make the mistakes of our ancestors. Tell me, what do you know of Fen'Harel?"

The sudden change of topic caught Nyssa off-guard, and she blinked. "The Dread Wolf? He was the instrument of the gods' betrayal. He locked them away in the Black City, never to be seen again."

"And how do you know this?"

"It is what my Keeper told me."

"And how did your Keeper come to learn this?"

"Why are you asking me these questions?" she said angrily, throwing up her hands. "Mythal's mercy! She learned it from Keeper Gisharel, and Gisharel learned it from the Keeper before her, and so on and so forth all the way back to Arlathan!"

" _Not_ to Arlathan!" Felassan replied. He leaned forward, hands resting on his thighs, his expression intense. "To _Halamshiral_. Scraps of scraps, fragments of fragments gleaned after a thousand years of slavery in the Tevinter Imperium!"

The clearing fell silent, broken only by the crackle and pop of roasting meat and the fire.

"What are you saying?" she said eventually. "That Fen'Harel did not exist? That the Creators are fabrications?"

"I am saying," Felassan replied, "that you must learn the purpose of what you have been taught."

"I don't understand."

"You may yet, in time." He gestured to the fire. "The rabbit is ready. If you can stand to listen to an old relic for a time, I will tell you why I asked such questions."


	4. Veilfire

That first night Nyssa and Felassan talked well into the early hours of the morning. He did most of the talking; she questioned and argued and prodded him beyond what she knew was her Keeper's tolerance. Yet he did not dismiss her rebuttals or resist her questioning. Every question he answered thoughtfully as if they had merit. It was refreshing not to be treated like an upstart child.

Still, that didn't mean she couldn't test the limits a little bit.

"You realise," Nyssa said, when they were half a day's walk out of Halamshiral, "that I do not have to follow you on…what do the humans call it? A wild goose chase?"

Felassan strode ahead, whistling an upbeat tune. He made no indication he had heard her.

She quickened her pace to match his. "Hey! Are you listening to me?"

"No," he said, and kept walking.

Nyssa stopped in her tracks so suddenly her feet kicked up a cloud of dust.

"Penshra!" she said, and he stopped. "I did not leave my clan to follow in another's footsteps. I am First to the Keeper."

"You are an ignorant child." Felassan turned around at last, his hood down, and regarded her with a stern eye. "Creators know how you lasted as an apprentice."

"Be very careful," she warned.

There was a long, tense pause in which they regarded each other warily.

Felassan moved-Nyssa flinched, ready to summon her magic-but then he held up a bent twig. She blinked in confusion.

"You need a staff," he said. "I know of a tree you can make use of."

Nyssa's shoulders slumped, the tension draining from her muscles. "Well, why didn't you just say so?"

Felassan turned and began to walk, and this time she followed.

"Because," he said, without turning around, "it was fun to see you get so mad."

Caught by surprise, Nyssa laughed. It was something her brother would have done, and it put her at ease somewhat.

Felassan helped her cut a staff from an ancient heartwood tree deeper in the forest, and when she asked how it could have grown so twisted and lifelike, for once he gave her a straight answer.

"It was once a sylvan," he said, as she smoothed her hand over the bark.

Nyssa snatched her hand back and glanced uneasily at the twisted branches. Now she looked closer she could almost see a face in the knots and whorls of wood, and a shiver ran down her spine. "It was possessed by a demon?"

Felassan looked amused. "You can't catch demon possession from touch, da'len."

"I know that," she retorted. "I'm more concerned the demon might decide to move back in."

"Oh, the demon is long gone," he said airily. "But it's said traces of the Veil will linger in the wood."

"So I'm to have a demon-tainted staff. Lovely."

Felassan took a knife from his belt and began to carve at a thick branch above her head.

"You focus too much on your fear of demons," he said. "Move back, unless you want this to fall on your head."

At this point it was better just to acquiesce.

She should have been more concerned, following a complete stranger, but Felassan was a curious man. For one he was no Dalish; of that she was certain. A tattooed face and ragged clothes might be enough to convince a city-born elf, but not her. It was also impossible to tell how old he was, either-he could be anywhere between forty to eighty.

The most curious was the way he talked about Fen'Harel.

Like most Dalish the pantheon had always been central to her life, and she knew well the Dread Wolf and the tales of his betrayal. The Lord of Tricksters, the Great Wolf, He Who Hunts Alone; he was known by many names, and was said to wander the Beyond, feasting upon the souls of the dead.

Felassan did not speak about Fen'Harel with the old fear in his voice like her teachers did. He spoke as if he were a clever trickster; a rebel who thumbed his nose at the other gods. It was intriguing, and infuriating, and it made her want to know more. He hadn't told her where they were going either, only to say he needed to 'show' her the meaning of his words.

"There are a great many mysteries in this world," he'd said, as they headed deeper and deeper into the forest. Vague and unhelpful as usual.

Then one day, Nyssa awoke and he was gone.

She knew instantly that he wasn't nearby. There was a feeling that pulled at her chest, like a sound she could feel rather than see. It wasn't unusual for him to leave in the early morning for a time, but his pack always remained. This time the clearing was empty, save for the dying fire and her own belongings.

She sat up, and as she did a piece of crinkled paper fluttered into her lap. A note written in a surprisingly neat hand; in elven script no less.

 _Nyssa,_

 _Ochre lily, silent plains rose, canavaris, salubrious embrium, felandaris, lakrima. Dried and thrown on a fire, these herbs will allow you to enter the Fade with ease._

 _I am needed back in Halamshiral, and your path will take you to a place only you may discover._

 _Find the temple. Retrieve the source of power within. Return to Halamshiral when you have done this and I will find you._

 _F._

The 'source of power?' She was beginning to think Felassan more touched by madness than blessed by knowledge. And what shrine? There was nothing around but thick forest, not even a marked path to show where they'd stumbled through the night before. There was a soft leather pouch sitting by her pack though, ostensibly filled with the dried herbs he'd listed.

Nyssa crushed the note in her hand as the anger boiled in her chest. Yet she was oddly touched...and not entirely sure she wasn't being tricked.

That would be just his style, too.

* * *

She found the temple after a ten minute struggle through an area thick with brambles and spider webbing big enough to trap a deer in, much to her abject horror. The Creators had a sense of humour, and apparently that was where Felassan got it from.

Nyssa cursed him out loud as she hacked and burned through the foliage.

"Damn the man." _Whack_. "Grabbing me from that f-" _Whack_. "-market square, making me-" A whoosh of flames and the webbing fell about her in charred clumps. "-telling me stupid stories about the Dread fucking Wolf, leaving me out here-"

Her tirade turned into an angry mumble as she spotted a massive pair of doors ahead, tucked between two trees. The branches had been braided together to form an archway, with moss and budding wildflowers covering the trunks. There was no mistaking the style; it was pre-Halamshiral.

There were temples and shrines and fortresses all through the Vimmarks too, though she had never been allowed near them. Keeper Elindra would send Cillian, her original First. Nyssa remembered pestering him endlessly for details whenever he returned from such journeys, and he always indulged her patiently. Now she had the chance to see it for herself.

What was it the humans said? Curiosity killed the cat? An odd saying, but she understood the gist of it.

She pushed at the doors with all her strength until they opened inwards with a grinding sound, showering her in broken leaves and twigs. A brazier bolted to each wall flared to life with a flame of green-and something hissed from the mottled shadows.

"Oh, f-"

A pair of blackened claws swiped at her, narrowingly missing her head. A twisted creature with glowing eyes appeared. Its shape flickered and rippled like water, the rags of its garment fluttering in a non-existent breeze. A shade-a demon that crossed the Veil without possessing a body, or a soul that lingered after its body had long since rotted, depending on who you asked.

She was going to _kill_ Felassan.

The shade lunged at her again, and she hit it with a blast of ice magic. It collapsed in a shower of frost and dissolved into ash, and Nyssa all but fell against the wall as her body flooded with adrenaline.

She could almost hear Felassan now. "What did you expect in a place like this? Bunnies and ducklings? Surely a clever Dalish mage would know better."

"Damn him," Nyssa said out loud in between heavy breaths. "And damn-" no, she couldn't quite bring herself to curse Keeper Elindra. She couldn't be entirely certain the old woman wouldn't hear her from across the Dales.

She pulled herself upright and drew closer to the brazier, seeking warmth in the chill breeze, but there was none to be had with such a fire. Coloured flames were possible by burning powdered vitriol or arcanite, but they still emitted heat and needed oil or wood to burn. The brazier was empty; the flames burning on nothing.

Nyssa reached her hand into the brazier and let her fingers trail through the flames. Suddenly the word came unbidden to her: _Veilfire_ , a type of sympathetic magic. She had read about it in a book passed to Ralaferin at the last gathering.

Was it wise to explore this temple alone? Probably not. What was the alternative? Returning to Halamshiral with nothing, or worse, heading back to the clan with her tail between her legs?

That last thought was unbearable, and it was enough to make her want to gag. The humiliation of it…

" _No_ ," Nyssa said out loud, in between her teeth, and snatched up her staff. "I will not go back."

She lit the crystal set into her staff and marched forward into the darkness.


	5. In-Between

"Focus," Keeper Elindra said.

Nyssa sat before her, legs folded and arms in her lap. Afternoon sunlight warmed her face, turning the view behind her closed eyes reddish-gold.

"How can I focus and relax at the same time?" she said cheekily, and heard a quiet giggle from Neria beside her.

The Keeper gave her a firm tap on the shoulder with her staff; not enough to hurt, but enough to make Nyssa jump in response.

"Allow your muscles to slacken," the older woman said. "Focus on the sounds. My voice. The wind."

"The cooks shouting about soup-"

 _Thwap._

"Ow! Alright."

"If you put as much effort into your training as you do your wit," the Keeper said, "you would be done with this lesson already."

Nyssa let her shoulders drop and her legs sink into the grass. She could feel the breeze and the sun on her face, alternating warm and cool, and she could hear the wind rustling the trees gently. She could hear Neria shifting ever-so-slightly beside her, and she could smell her fragrance. Her stomach gave a little lurch in response.

"What do you smell?"

Nyssa breathed deeply. The air smelled of rich soup and roasting meat, signs the clan was preparing for the evening meal...and something else. Wood smoke, wild flowers, pollen, dung-then something more underneath it. She inhaled again, focusing on the scent. Nothing earthly about it.

"What do you feel?"

Magic; not enough to pull into herself or shape to her will, but enough to feel its rhythm and resonation.

"Open your eyes."

Nyssa remembered that moment clear as day in her mind: the aravels bathed in the sunset glow, the murmurs of elven from busy workers and the faint grunts of the halla in their pens. The warmth of Neria's knee pressing against her own; the recollection of their intimate encounter later that night made the blood rise in her face.

But when she opened her eyes she saw only dawn sunlight streaming from the holes in a crumbling roof, and the face in the pool beside her was not the Keeper's reflection, but her own. The memory and its warmth blew away like motes of dust, leaving her with a deep loneliness. She was far from home and everything familiar, sitting by a stagnant pool in a temple that predated her history books.

This place had been built to honour June the Craftsman, based on what little Nyssa could gauge from eroded stone carvings and crumbling books. On the first day she mapped out what areas were clear enough to walk through. The second day she cleaned; burning bodies, clearing moss and leaves and carrying Veilfire to the other braziers. She worked through the day, as if compelled by an unseen magic...or perhaps it was just a need to see the temple as it should have been. At night she camped in the courtyard and wandered the Fade in her dreams.

The silence drove Nyssa mad at first, but she found if she filled it with her own voice it was bearable. So she talked out loud, wandering through the empty hallways. She spoke to Amias, apologizing for her abrupt departure; and to Neria, regretting how things had soured between them. She even imagined herself talking to Keeper Elindra, asking her to understand why she had to leave. It seemed all she was capable of lately were apologies and explanations.

She must have looked strange, wandering the hallways for hours with her own voice for company, but after four days she didn't know what else to do. What Felassan meant by a source of power

She wanted answers - what did Felassan mean by 'the source of power?' Was it an artifact? Something abstract? Or perhaps it was nothing at all, and this was a waste of time.

* * *

" _Fenhedis_ ," Nyssa muttered under her breath. The blue-green flame sputtered out, and she shook her hand until it stopped tingling.

With the mystery of the 'source of power' no closer to being solved, Nyssa turned her attention to studying the Veilfire. Conjuration had never been her strong suit either. How many times had Keeper Elindra told her to practice what she was least adept at? Instead she preferred to avoid using magic she hadn't perfected. That attitude would come back to bite her in the arse, probably.

Nyssa leaned her staff against the wall and closed her eyes. Pointless in a pitch-black hallway, but it helped her concentrate. Slowly she siphoned the energy from the Veil and focused it on her upturned palm. A spark lit up the darkness, then another. Then came the blue-green flame, bursting to life above her palm.

Nyssa examined the Veilfire, watching how it moved with her fingers; the way it seemed to pulse like no ordinary flame.

It was then she began to hear the sound.

At first Nyssa thought it a distant noise from deeper inside the temple. There were places she hadn't explored yet, with crumbling floors and probably more demons than she could handle...she wasn't a complete idiot. But the more she listened the more she realised the sound was less a physical noise and more an undercurrent of magic.

She stepped forward, hand held high. The hum intensified.

Nyssa had been through this hallway before and found it like every other corridor in this place, with old stone walls and nothing to indicate it was worth a second glance. Now the Veilfire was glowing and the magic was humming the further she went.

There was a quiet sound, almost like the chime of a bell, and Nyssa jumped. A streak of green appeared on the wall to her left. As she watched in astonishment it spread, arcing itself into a curve. A shape emerged, then another. Letters, words, scrawled on the stone as if written by an invisible hand.

A great shiver ran through her and the hairs on the back of her neck raised. She knew, in theory, that Veilfire could be used to write and to activate spells. She'd never seen such a thing in her life, and it was hard not to worry if she was really alone in this temple. But she didn't have time to ponder that thought, as suddenly the stone wall began to shake. It slid aside, revealing another passageway reaching into darkness.

Much later Nyssa would look back on that moment as one of the most irresponsible and defining moments of her life. After all, she had been told over and over to _never_ venture into ancient ruins on her own.

"Our people were once gifted with magic the likes of which the shemlen have never seen," the Keeper would lecture her, "and they guarded their temples and tombs jealously. There are dangers in these places: traps that burn intruders, vengeful spirits and corpses that walk and attack the living, and even the darkspawn taint. Remember what happened to the Sabrae hunters."

Nyssa did remember, for the Sabrae clan's Keeper delivered the news herself at the last arlathvhen...but that ancient temple had been cursed, and Nyssa had thoroughly cleansed this place of traps, demons and otherwise. Surely she would be able to handle any dangers she might face. So she stepped forward into darkness, and tried to quell the beating of her heart.

The corridor seemed to stretch on forever, but in such darkness it was impossible to tell where it actually led. The glimpses of the walls showed rough-hewn stone carvings untouched by moss and water damage, unlike the other corridors of the temple. The air was dry and smelled musty, unlike the damp and mold of the temple proper. The ground beneath her feet was smooth and perfectly preserved.

On and on she walked, with Veilfire in one hand and her staff in the other, until she caught sight of a faint outline ahead. A massive door of metal and wood...and she caught the echo of that sound again, like music she couldn't quite remember. The door was covered in a shimmering, greenish barrier. Nyssa wasn't sure what instinct or ancestral memory urged her to touch the Veilfire to the barrier, but when the green flames made contact the barrier flared white and disappeared. She leaned her staff against the wall and pushed open the doors with all her strength. Then, throwing caution to the wind, she lifted her staff and illuminated the room beyond.

The first thing she noticed was the mirror, but it was hard not to - it stood upon a pedestal in the centre of the round room, flanked by intricately carved ironbark trees. Stone branches wove themselves together in a frame around a massive pane of blue-grey glass.

The second thing she noticed were the corpses.

They were little more than dry husks with skin like leather stretched over ancient bones, clad in scraps of cloth and dull armour. From her position at the door they seemed to fan out in a half-circle around the mirror.

Nyssa froze with her staff held high, ready to cast a barrier at the magical blast that must have been coming...but when seconds passed in silence, she edged closer to one of the bodies and gave it a tentative poke with her staff.

Nothing.

From what she could tell, the person - elf, judging by the clothes - had fallen while moving towards the mirror, rather than away from it. Most of the other corpses appeared the same way. Of course, Nyssa knew that it was not really a mirror at all, but an eluvian, an artifact once used for travelling across the elven empire. Elvhenan had been vast, spreading across the entire continent of what was now Thedas, and the eluvians were said to have a network spanning thousands of miles. It was an eluvian that the Sabrae hunters had found in an ancient ruin, although corrupted with the darkspawn taint.

Nyssa moved towards the eluvian cautiously, as if the darkspawn taint would ambush her somehow. The glass seemed to ripple as she drew closer, reflecting the Veilfire she held. The flames reflected in the mirror, and then the writhing shapes changed. Clouds began to swirl across the smooth surface, and in the darkness behind her, something moved.


End file.
